


In Which Dave Strider is The King of Making a Complete Ass of Himself

by momothegr8



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Boys Kissing, M/M, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-07 23:34:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momothegr8/pseuds/momothegr8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>boys with crushes</p>
<p>this is dumb and i feel dumb for writing it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Dave Strider is The King of Making a Complete Ass of Himself

**Author's Note:**

> this is unbeta'd so i'm sorry for any inaccuracies or grammatical mistakes or tense changes. i mostly just wanted to get this done and posted.

It's a hot-as-hell day in Houston, Texas and you, Dave Strider, are chilling in your room with about seventeen bottles of apple juice at your disposal. You have consumed approximately eighteen of them, because you are, again, Dave Strider and you answer to no mathematical logic. 

You were just about to get off your precariously reclined ass and get more apple juice through not-at-all-suspicious means, when your phone blasts out a rather Strider-esque remixed rendition of “How Do I Live”. You check the screen and see that John Egbert has sent you a message via text. You don’t understand why he’s not using Pesterchum like you two always do, but you quickly disregard it, on the account that you don’t exactly give a shit. You finally check the text message to see that it reads:

“hey, dave! :)”

You take the millisecond it takes to acknowledge the emoticon he used at the end, before replying:

“sup derpalicious”

You sit back, cringing at the shitty nickname. It was so last year. The meme is dead, Strider, you can't keep falling back on it like a middle schooler trying to be cool to impress his shitty friends who are just using him for his outdoor below-ground swimming pool. You're better than that. But it's already sent, so you might as well go for the whole derpy enchilada. The phone rings again.

“i’m bored.”

“awesome derpalina”

“stop calling me that!”

“whatever do you mean derparella”

“fine. can you come over?”

“i dunno i’m pretty busy doing nothing”

“sounds fun.”

“hella”

“please, can you come over?”

You think it over before replying. You know that Bro would kick your ass for leaving without his permission, and seeing as he is currently fucking the shit out of the beta version of his newest felt abomination, you have no way of getting that. On the other hand, this can be the perfect chance to confess your completely unironic homo-love for none-other than John himself. You soon come to the conclusion that John outranks your puppet-fucking brother, and you message back:

“fine whatever the derpy princess wants”

“shut up, dave!”

“if you’re gonna be like that i don’t think i’ll come over”

“i’m sorry”

“thats better”

“-_-”

“no need for that face egbett"

“dave!"

“yes”

“come on!”

“calm your tits i’l be there in a flash.”

You proceed to almost send him a flash image of you on a motorcycle that Terezi made you. That crazy, blind succubus. You are tempted to forget John and run off with her into the sunset, but then remember fondly that John is a choice piece of non-felt ass. You forget about the flash image, lost in your John's-ass fantasy, until the unmistakable sound of your phone snaps you to attention. 

“okay”

No greater, more creative words have been said in the history of history. True poetry. You regard it with fondness and wipe the single tear from your eye before packing your shit in an overnight bag, because if all goes well, you would be sleeping over. You step onto the transportalizer panel, and go to John’s place. You glance at the door before assaulting it brutally with your fist. He answers it promptly, and you restrain yourself from obtaining the instant boner you would have gotten if you were not, in fact, Dave Strider. You cover for your inner nervousness.

“Hello, Derping Beauty.” Yes. You have this in the bag. You can make it through this without looking like a complete and utter idio--SHITSHITSHIT! The most adorable pout you can possibly imagine had currently set up residence on your best pal-honcho’s face. You were not getting out of this alive, and it was clear. You clear your throat and plaster on an ironic smirk, and ask in a snarky manner, "You gonna invite me in or what?” You were temporarily disoriented, and the last comment didn’t come out as snarky as you had wanted. He doesn’t notice, rolls his eyes, and invites you in. 

You nonchalantly walk into John’s house, admiring the decorations, and hiding your inner disgust at the harlequins. This was almost as bad as the smuppets. Almost. He smiles despite your previous comments, and leads you up the stairs to his bedroom. You have to restrain yourself from staring longingly at that perfect, plush ass that's right there, close enough to touch. You manage to gather up enough coherence to wipe up your drool with your sleeve before reaching the top of the stairs. He holds out his hand in an offer that you strain to reject. 

"I'm not takin' that hand, dude."

In due time, Strider. In due time. He just rolls his eyes and scoffs. 

"Don't make it weird, man."

Oh, you're probably gonna make this whole thing VERY weird in the next forty-five minutes. Let's just hope that the adorable little shit in front of you has the heart to forgive you. 

You force your legs into John's room, and everything is just as you remember it: nerdy as hell. He closes the door behind you and you're busy admiring the geek decor to notice him coming towards you until it's too late. He has descended. Houston, the nerd has landed and--wait, is...is he kissing you? Holy shit on a fucking cracker, this is a kiss. You push him off for a second and your face is probably the same red as John's is right now. He has a look of confusion and embarrassment written across his face. 

"Sorry, was that too forward?? Rose just said I should go for it and--"

"Wait. Answer something for me. What the fuck?" His mortified almost-frown turns into a mortified chuckle of almost-disbelief. 

"Dave, I like you."

Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh.

"Oh." That last one makes itself heard, and you can't stop the next string of words from tumbling out. 

"Like, like me like me?" Wow. That might have been the shittiest thing you've ever said. Somebody give you a medal because you're probably making the biggest ass of yourself. The little fucker laughs again. 

"Yeah, I guess I do 'like you like you'."

It was probably fucking funny to see the smile that plastered itself on your face at that moment. Shit. You shakily lean in as some kind of signal saying, "hey, kiss me again because I've liked you since age 13!". Needless to say, he gets the message and soon you two are taking the smooch train to make-out central and baby, you had no brakes. 

You decide somewhere in between him slipping his tongue into the mix and him awkwardly pushing your shirt up above your navel that there's no place you'd rather be.

**Author's Note:**

> i could add more if wanted, i guess.


End file.
